


an effort

by emilywolf



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Gen, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 06:47:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13607832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emilywolf/pseuds/emilywolf
Summary: Connor's got problems. Connor's getting better.It's not all one beautiful ride to becoming a good person, though. He has rough patches. But he's learning to help himself.





	an effort

     The rage is hard. The rage is the hardest goddamn part of the whole, the whole _getting better_ because it sure doesn't fucking feel like he's any better a person when he hates everything, his hair his hands his clothes, and every _one_ , his sister his mom his dad, and everything is too fucking much. Everything is too much, even the bips of what--

     (“Lots of people with Borderline Personality disorder tend to think emotionally,” his therapist says, handing him a sheet of paper, “rather than logically. This isn't a flaw! But sometimes, you need to step outside your feelings, and analyze your reactions logically.”)

     His friends are trying to help. The messages come in, again, a snap from Alana, and his breathes in. Breathes out. Forces himself to open the message.

_Are you okay? I saw your Tumblr post._

     Right. He'd started this breakdown on there, made a few posts, then proceeded to uninstall it from his phone. Y’know. Logical.

     He curses under his breath. Fuck. He's absolutely doing it, exclusively using his “emotional brain” or whatever the fuck. He reinstalls Tumblr, cursing his _fucking_ therapist who's _fucking_ right, and probably going to make a big deal of this next Thursday. Because it's improvement. Which it sure doesn't fucking feel like.

     Not when he's still fuming about it long enough that Alana double texts him.

_I just want to make sure you're okay! You seemed really upset :(_

**Yeah, im** backspace backspace backspace **Lmao y** backspace backspace backspace **I feel like** backspace backspace backspace. **Let me get back to you.** It's the best he can offer her, really. She replies quickly.

_Do you want to talk about it?_

     Jesus. Talk about a loaded question. Of course he wants to talk about it, he fucking made a post about it on _Tumblr_ , of all websites. Of course he doesn't want to talk about it, he never wants to talk to anyone anyway, much less over his feelings.

**No, ill be** backspace backspace backspace **No i just need a min** backspace backspace backspace **I dont need your h**

     (“Sometimes the best thing to do is, like, the opposite of what you want to do?”

     He and Evan are in his house. Evan's on his desk chair, he’s laying on his bed. It was a bad day in a different way, coming off whatever chemical had been laced in his weed. He's shivering under a blanket.

     “What the fuck does that even mean?” he says sharply, not because he's angry, but because he's fucking sick of Evan saying everything like a question and looking for a fucking answer--

     “Like, sometimes I get really anxious and just want to stay in bed all day and not talk to anyone ever again, but instead I force myself to meet up with someone.” He's fiddling with a thread on his sleeve. “And usually by the time I'm ready to leave the house I feel a lot better.”

     Connor snorts. “Yeah, because that's what I want, someone to see me when I'm being fucking pathetic. Right.”

     “Well, maybe not meeting up face to face then!” Evan says quickly. “Maybe just, texting them? Or emailing them, if you want the delay, because I know I--”

     “I get it,” he snaps. Evan shuts up. Connor tries to ignore whatever feeling that puts in his heart, and focuses instead on the misery of coming down. The regret bleeds through anyway.)

     Connor sits up, breathes in a breath, and replies **.**

**No but i probably should. can i email you?**

_Of course_.

     Silence. He should start typing so he can send the email and go the fuck to sleep. He doesn't need to text her back. It's implied the conversation is done. She’d get it if he just stopped talking. And yet.

**Thanks alana**

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys. getting better is really fucking hard. but people want to help. people will help. and you dont have to explain your life story and tear open past wounds to accept their help.
> 
> also, i wrote this while sucking on that devils plant at like one am in a shed during a snow storm. its okay to fall to coping mechanisms that arent the best (weed) while you transition to better and healthier ways to deal (writing).


End file.
